


all roads lead to you

by Anonymous



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27210430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He’d very much like to not care, for the rest of the night. Gus is safe, Shawn is safe, everyone he cares about is safe and he thinks he’s allowed to let loose a little and getgloriouslybaked.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93
Collections: Anonymous





	all roads lead to you

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe one day I'll de-anon, but figured I should post this since despite disagreeing with the show's portrayals a lot of the time, I am damn proud of his piece of work and finally feel ready to share it. 
> 
> There is canon typical violence and language in here, recreational drug use (marijuana), alcohol use, talks of death, talks of dealing with loss and grief, and the general harrowing minefield that is Shawn Spencer's brain. 
> 
> This is a direct episode tag to 'Gus Walks into A Bank' (3x08) and references the events of the episode heavily! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please enjoy.

Shawn’s just settling down on his couch, joint in hand, when there’s a series of aggressive, rough knocks sounding on his front door. He breathes a sigh. After the day he’s had, for once, the last thing he wants is to deal with anyone else. His muscles still ache from everything that went down at the bank, and worrying about Gus, and worrying about Gus, and worrying about Gus. 

‘Cause that’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it. Much as he likes to play it cool, he  _ really almost lost Gus today _ . His best friend. The only person who’s known him at every stage in his life, despite their loss of contact when Shawn left Santa Barbara. 

In a way Shawn’s never quite understood, but also never questioned, Gus is so much more to him than a simple childhood best friend. There simply aren’t words to explain how much he  _ loves _ him. Aside from the few pets Henry didn’t rehome immediately, he’s never really dealt with the idea of someone or something he loves dying. 

It’s too much to deal with. 

So he doesn’t. 

Instead of answering the door like he probably should -- it might be Jules, which almost gets him to answer it, but the chance of it being his father keeps his ass firmly parked on his couch. He shouldn’t be indulging in this right now, probably, but it’s not like he’ll be able to sleep without it, and frankly, Shawn is sick and tired of caring. 

He’d very much like to not care, for the rest of the night. Gus is safe, Shawn is safe, everyone he cares about is safe and he thinks he’s allowed to let loose a little and get  _ gloriously  _ baked. 

He brings the joint to his lips, lighting it with a flick of the lighter. He inhales once he’s sure the flame has hit, letting the lighter fall somewhere on his lap. The first hit is always his favorite; it’s the most rough, a kick to his nervous system as goosebumps break out over his skin. 

It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to do this. With how close he is to the police department these days, and with his dad trying to live in his back pocket, it always seemed safest -- to only indulge when he was sure he’d be able to be alone. 

He takes another hit, the rapid fire thoughts that have become as much of a background noise to him by now than anything else slowing down. The tension he’s been carrying since Lassie and Jules showed up to the bank that morning melts out of him when he exhales. It’s also the moment whoever it is that’s outside decides to knock again. 

“Ugh,” he groans. He’s obviously not getting out of this, is he? He puts out the joint in the ashtray he keeps in the box in his closet, and sighs. There’s not much he can do about the smell, but he grabs some of his cologne to be safe and spritzes himself with it. 

He can only hope it’s someone who  _ isn’t _ Lassiter. He thinks he can weasel his way out of it if it were anyone else, but Lassie always saw through him. From the very beginning, with  _ everything _ . He’s not convinced the man isn’t doing it Professor-X style, honestly. Which would be so cool Shawn wouldn’t even be upset for getting reamed out. 

He opens the door to find Lassie blinking back at him, because of course he does. The man looks only moderately angry, which is a generous improvement to how he usually looks whenever Shawn’s involved. Shawn can’t even enjoy how much he delights in the expression, not when Lassie’s eyes narrow as he takes in Shawn’s appearance. 

“Lassie!” Shawn exclaims, hoping to break up whatever thought processes the man’s indulging in before they can truly start. “To what do I owe the pleasure, dude?” 

The detective meets his eyes with a sigh. “It was… strongly suggested someone should check up on you,” he says, like it pains him. “O’Hara had plans.” 

Shawn raises an eyebrow. “Aw, Lass! I knew you cared. This is touching, really. I’m touched.” 

Lassie looks like he wants to roll his eyes for a moment, but thinks better of it. 

“Shut up, Spencer. This wasn’t my idea.” 

“Obviously,” Shawn says. “So, you’ve checked up on me. Woo, go you! I’m good. I’m great, actually. So that’s -- you can cross that off as done.” 

“Spencer--” Lassiter tries to cut in. 

Shawn doesn’t really let him.

“Normally, I’d invite you in, give you a beer or three, watch some Clint Eastwood or whatever, I know you love that guy, man. Unfortunately, tonight I’m busy, so. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

This time it’s Lassiter’s eyebrows that climb into his hairline. 

“You’re being far less of an ass than usual,” Lassie comments, looking thoughtful. “The real question is, do I care enough to investigate further?” 

Shawn thinks he should be offended by that, normally he would be, but he’s feeling a bit more relaxed than he has in the past twenty-four hours alone. He decides to shrug it off, meeting Lassie’s eyes and plastering a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“I don’t think you do, dude. I know you.” 

Lassie has made it clear his time is always better spent away from Shawn, despite how often Shawn’s tried to weasel his way in, the man’s heart is protected more heavily than a damn  _ fort _ . Shawn would know. He’s actually tried to seize a fort before. 

Fun. Challenging, not unlike whatever dance it is he does with Lassiter. 

Lassie’s face closes off, and it’s only then that he realizes how relaxed the older man had gotten. It’s gone in a flash, quick enough that the changes in the man’s expression are almost impossible to decipher, but this is  _ Shawn _ . He was conditioned to notice. 

Shit. 

“Spencer.” 

“Well, this was a nice talk, Lassie, real nice. I’m super jazzed you thought to check up on me, man, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut it off here. See you tomorrow!” he says, and tries very valiantly to close the door right on Lassiter’s face. The taller man doesn’t have to try very hard to stop him, wedging one of his massive feet between the door and the frame easily. 

“Not so fast, Spencer. Don’t think I don’t notice the  _ rankness  _ coming from your apartment.” 

Shawn laughs. “Plausible deniability, Lassie.” 

He tries to nudge Lassiter’s foot out of the way so he can finally close the door and get as far away from the confrontation no doubt brewing beneath the surface, but of course the man doesn’t even twitch at the movement. 

“Not going to happen.” Lassie says. “I’m not going to arrest you, either, so calm down.”

Shawn narrows his eyes at him. “That sounds like something you would say just to get me to let my guard down,” he says suspiciously. 

Lassiter sighs. “Look, I don’t care what you get up to in your personal time as long as it doesn’t affect your work.” 

Shawn doubts that’s the truth, he’s seen the man hound criminals for less, but there’s something unspoken there that Lassie isn’t saying. Shawn doesn’t know  _ what  _ exactly it is, but it feels like something big, something important. Something that is probably worth mentioning. 

Shawn’s too scrambled already to really make sense of it, so he files it away for later. 

“I may be irresponsible sometimes, sure. But c’mon, man. Give me some more credit.” 

“I know,” he says. 

Shawn nods. “Right. So, that’s settled then, I guess.” 

“Can I come in?” asks Lassiter. 

Shawn blinks, and then can’t quite help the smirk that slides firmly into place. “ _ Lassiter, _ ” he whispers, delighted. “Don’t tell me you want to get baked.” 

Lassiter looks pained, and pissed, and weirdly hot. “Spencer. Humor me.” 

The thing is, despite it all, despite how much of a hardass Lassiter is, how he manages to somehow suck the fun out of almost  _ everything _ ; Shawn trusts him. Trusts him almost as much as he does Gus. As much as he trusts Jules, though it’s not something he could ever say comfortably out loud.

Wordlessly, because he can’t possibly find them right now, Shawn steps aside and lets Lassiter in. This is the first time the detective has been inside his apartment, and he’d probably be a little embarrassed about how it looks if he were one to care about that kind of thing. Since  _ this  _ is the first time Lassiter has been to his place, and despite his usual disinclination to this kind of thing, there is a part of Shawn that wants to impress the other man. 

The same part of him that has  _ always _ wanted that. 

“Isn’t this the donut factory that closed down a few years ago?” 

Shawn laughs. “Yeah, it is. Got a great deal on the place, and well. Living in weird cool places is a good time. Very character building.” 

“Right,” Lassie says, clearly thinking he’s full of it. 

Shawn thinks it looks alright. There’s a wall on the far side of the living room, leading up to the loft above it where his bed is, with a galley kitchen off on the opposite wall. It’s larger than one would typically expect of lofts, and he got a killer deal on it due to a Psychic Arrangement. 

Ha, killer.

Gus.

Almost dead.

He sighs. Makes his way back over to his couch and plops down heartily. He’s not as much of an idiot to light up with Lassiter right in front of him, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to. Oh, he desperately wants to. Anything to cease the circulating thoughts surfacing once again from the surprise of the detective’s visit. 

Lassie must read some of this on his face, as Shawn can hear the call of his feet as he follows him across the room. 

“Spencer…” Lassie starts.

Shawn cuts him off.

“Don’t,” he says, a bit too sharply. 

Shawn has been many things around Lassie, but sharpness hasn’t truly been on the table yet. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the anxiety he’s felt all day, nonetheless actually talk about it. 

Silence stretches between them for several moments. Shawn almost expects Lassiter to leave now that the situation has turned uncomfortable -- the man certainly isn’t shy about removing himself from a situation if he really wants to -- but he finds himself hoping for some reason that the other man  _ stays _ . He’s already sent a few texts to Gus, tells himself that Gus needs time alone as much as Shawn needs to know he’s okay, that Gus is safe, he’s fine. He’s  _ okay _ . 

He’s okay. 

He’s okay.

He’s okay. 

His fingers itch. He spreads them out on the arm of the couch in deliberation. 

And then he opens his stupid mouth. 

“Today really sucked, huh?” 

Lassie shrugs. “We caught the guy, made a clean arrest, saved a lot of civilians. It could be worse.” 

Shawn supposes that’s true, yeah. Shit could have hit the fan for real, and then he’d really be fucked. But it’s not like this is exactly fun, either. In between the hostage situation, Luntz, and the adrenaline coursing through him that hasn’t even completely cooled, he finds himself, for the first time, in a long time, feeling  _ tired _ . 

“I can’t say that makes me feel any better,” Shawn mutters. 

Lassiter shrugs. “Wasn’t expecting it to. Guster is still here, Spencer. Focus on that.” 

Shawn breathes out a sigh, and then another. “Wow, Lassie. You actually said something that doesn’t make it worse for once.” 

Lassiter rolls his eyes, which is as delightful to see as always. Sparking a negative reaction out of him is better than no reaction. “Shut up.” 

Shawn laughs, from the familiarity and the petulant tone the detective has adopted. He doesn’t know why Lassiter is still here, why he didn’t take one of the multiple outs Shawn gave him. It’s something he didn’t understand ten minutes ago and still doesn’t understand now. The other man has never been shy about making his dislike for Shawn clear. He would have thought Lassie would have burst into flames by now for having to hang around him, but if it were anyone else…

Shawn would almost say he  _ wanted _ to be here. 

_ Maybe because he does want to be here _ . 

“Why are you really here?” 

Lassiter is still standing in the middle of his living room, despite the empty space next to Shawn on the couch, or the empty chair that sits right beside him. He says nothing, though Shawn catches the way his words seem to get stuck in his throat. Interesting. 

Shawn takes pity on him, and nods gestures towards the fridge. 

“If you’re planning on sticking around, make yourself comfy, dude. There’s beer in the fridge, some fresh pineapple, the whole works. My house is your house, et cetera, et cetera.” 

The man stays still for a few more moments, before breathing out a heavy sigh. He walks over to the fridge after another moment of silent deliberation, and grabs a beer. 

Lassiter then surprises them both by sitting on the other end of the couch. Shawn’s couch is more of a generous loveseat than anything, which is far closer than Lassie ever usually allows himself to be around him. It’s intoxicating, almost as much as the first kiss of a blunt, and Shawn wants to lean in more, see how far he can push, how close the other man will let him get. 

But, tonight doesn’t seem like the kind of night for pushing.

Instead, Shawn  _ pokes _ . 

“I gotta say, man. I’m proud of you. I never thought I’d see the day when  _ the  _ Detective Lassiter actually took a break that wasn’t mandatory or medically enforced.” He teases with a smirk.

Lassie pops open the beer on the corner of Shawn’s makeshift nightstand (which is far hotter than it has any right to be) with a snort. 

“I relax, Spencer. I just don’t relax around you.” 

Shawn gasps, faux affronted. “Hey! That’s rude, Lassie. I’m the most relaxed guy there is, you should know you’re safe with me. I’ll take care of you, buddy.”

Lassiter sighs like he’s personally asking whatever god is listening for strength -- does Lassiter even believe in that kind of thing? Shawn has no idea. Of all the things they’ve talked about, religion was hardly one of them. Unfortunately it isn’t like Lassie’s ever been open to getting to know those kinds of things about each other.

Not for lack of trying, of course. Shawn’s tried, oh he’s  _ tried _ , but Lassie is practically his own fort with how valiantly he keeps his cards to his chest. 

“Stop being ridiculous, Spencer,” Lassie finally says, after several moments of silence. He can feel the detective’s gaze on his face, though it never stays for longer than a handful of moments at a time. “Why are you so shaken up about it this time? This is hardly the first time you or Guster have had a close call.” 

Well. Looks like they’ve completely abandoned not being personal with each other. 

That question is about as personal as it gets for Shawn. It’s like asking about his  _ dad _ or something equally as horrifying. Which is great, though not exactly the kind of thing he was prepared to talk about tonight. 

“I don’t know. It’s not the same, I guess. I wasn’t there when it happened. So much could have happened inside by the time I managed to get in there and assess what was really going on.” 

Lassiter makes an affirmative noise. “Guster was lucky the guy holding up the bank was Stubbins instead of a hardened criminal.” 

Shawn nods. “Yeah, if the real bad dudes weren’t in the store the whole time, then I’d think you’d be right. But there’s no saying what could or would have gone down had we stood by and done nothing like that geriatic Kevin Bacon wanted us to.” 

He catches the way the detective half-smiles out of the corner of his eye, and it’s a small reprieve from the negativity he’s been stewing in for the last several hours. If he’s being honest, though, it started getting better the moment he saw a familiar face on his doorstep, but that’s neither here nor there. Semantics, as it were. 

“Next time, focus on prevention instead theatrics. And Spencer?” Lassiter adds on. 

“Yes, Lassie?” he asks, smirking. 

“Don’t let Guster walk into the bank alone.” 

He sags into the couch beneath him, eyes flicking longingly to the joint on his corner table once the fresh wave of regret and guilt hit slam into him like Donkey Kong. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Lassie-Sass, that will never happen again.” 

  
  
  
  


&~&~&~&

  
  


If Shawn was surprised when Lassiter asked to be invited in, he’s  _ floored _ when the man doesn’t immediately bolt after finishing the offered beer. If anything, the man settles down into the couch to get more comfortable, stretching out his obscenely long legs (ones that Shawn can’t help but follow with his eyes, skipping over the delicious straight-laced curve of his thighs.) 

He glances over at Lassie. What he really wants to ask is “ _ why are you here _ ” or “ _ you’re not really here because the chief or Jules sent you, are you?”  _ but that feels too heavy, too much for the air between them right now. Lassie seems to have loosened up considerably in the last several minutes, and maybe it’s enough to make Shawn want to push his luck a little bit. 

“Man, I’m  _ starving _ ,” Shawn groans. “Are you hungry? Wanna order some Chinese with me? A-la sleepover styles? Without the sleepover, obviously. I don’t think you remembered to bring your toothbrush.” 

This is the time he really expects Lassiter to mutter some excuse about making it home to wax his guns, or whatever it is a man like him does in his free time. 

“Sure,” he says, simply, like it really is  _ that _ easy. Maybe it is. They’re already here, aren’t they? Lassie is here, and he didn’t blow up at Shawn for the drugs, or the feelings he’s no doubt spouting everywhere like a loser, and he wonders where in the last twenty-four hours they could have come to this understanding between each other when Shawn wasn’t paying attention for once. 

Shawn nods, pushing himself off his couch to hunt for his favorite place’s menu. He memorized it a few weeks after coming back to Santa Barbara, but he doubts Lassiter orders it as often, if at all. He grabs a beer for himself on his way back, and tosses the menu into the detective’s lap. 

“Order whatever you’d like,” He mumbles. “I’m buying.” 

He’s actually buying this time, too.

Gus would be proud. 

  
  
  


&~&~&~&

  
  
  
  
  


Shawn’s cracked open his own beer and had a few sips by the time they’ve ordered their food. Shawn doesn’t know what to do now; hanging out with Lassiter on a random Wednesday had been so far out of left field he hadn’t even considered it, and now that he’s here he feels woefully out of his depth. He’s not sure what is keeping the other man here, but it’s finally enough to start making him nervous. 

Not that Lasister is heartless; he’s seen his protective streak regarding O’Hara more times than he can count the last few years, but that protectiveness had never really extended to him. Sure, Lassiter would protect him -- and has protected him -- had he needed to; that’s his  _ job _ . This is different, though. 

This is voluntary. 

Maybe it was suggested that Lassie check up on him tonight, but it was by no means an order. Shawn can tell that just by looking at him, really. 

If Lassie were Gus, they’d simply crash on the couch and start up a cheesy and ridiculous eighties horror marathon with hella snacks. This, however, is not Gus, and he’s not sure Lassie’s ever seen a cheesy movie in his life. 

Maybe. The guy was married, after all. 

“I don’t have my manicure kit on me so manipedis are out,” Shawn says with a pout. He really  _ doesn’t _ have his manicure kit with him, which is just as fine. It never turns out as well as it does when he goes to get it professionally done instead. “But, what, pray tell, is your opinion of holy grail eighties movies, Lassie-pants?”

His favorite Head Detective just sighs, like Shawn is flexing every single one of his ‘ _ I’m-trying-not-to-explode-on-you’ _ muscles, which is every bit as endearing as it is watching him try to locate a case file Shawn oh-so-helpfully relocated. There is a never ending pool of amusement in messing with Lassie; he should know, he’s tried to find the end of that particular pool with no luck. 

There's just something so  _ cute  _ about riling the detective up, not unlike the way he felt on the playground, chasing around kids just to annoy them into putting up with him. 

“Don’t be an ass, Spencer.” 

He raises an eyebrow placatingly, plastering on his most innocent expression. “What? I really  _ do _ have a mani-pedi kit, Lassie! I wouldn’t joke around about something like that. It’s sacred.” 

The detective doesn’t comment on it, instead choosing to push the conversation forward, which is probably wise. Shawn is a master at talking out of his ass. He had to be, with a father like Henry. 

“Just pop in the damn movie.” 

Shawn grins, pushing himself off of the couch dramatically to skip over to his DVD collection on the other side of his flat screen. His collection is obscene, and way too involved, even by Gus’ standards, but it is the only thing he owns that rivals the cost of his bike. 

“Any preferences?” He asks, gesturing en masse to the loads of shelves he’s crouching in front of. 

“I will dismantle you with my bare hands if you think I’m going to sit through  _ The Breakfast Club _ .” 

Shawn feels it’s probably a little fucked up that makes his dick twitch, but he’s long since stopped questioning it when it comes to the detective. Lest he not forget The Great Holster Incident of 2007.

"That's very kinky of you, Lassie. I'm impressed." 

"Shut up, and pick a damn movie." 

Shawn laughs, but for once, does as the detective asks. He picks up the DVD he’s been half-eyeing since crouching down here anyway (if you’re going to go at all, you might as well go big, right?) and pops it in his player. He grabs the remote he leaves on the entertainment stand simply so he won’t lose it as he was wont to do, and plops back on the couch again. 

“Movie: acquired,” He says, with false gravitas. “Food: on the way. Good company: still up in the air, but showing positive signs.” 

He glances over at Lassiter again, sees he’s finished his beer and is fighting something that would be called on a smile on anyone else. Shawn isn’t quite sure if it’s a smile on  _ Lassiter _ , but it is, at the very least, better than the outright contempt he wears usually. 

“Good company is hardly in the cards tonight, since I’m here,” says Lassiter, tone almost  _ teasing _ . 

Shawn clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes to hide the way his heart skips a beat. This is, perhaps, the most outwardly civil they’ve ever been to each other. Other than the time Shawn and Gus got him off of murder charges. Habit and patterns are hard to break, but there’s no one here to put on a show for. Common ground doesn’t seem as unattainable as it usually does. 

“Mm, the night is young. I think it might surprise you.” 

“I don’t do surprises.”

Shawn laughs, taking a long pull from his beer bottle. “Not all surprises end up like Juliet’s surprise party, you big, hairy giraffe.” 

“Don’t remind me of that disaster. I had to  _ move _ .” 

“Yes, I’m sure that was quite the heartbreaker for you to deal with, wasn’t it, man?” 

“I had a good rate on that place.” 

“She meant well, though. It was kind of sweet, what she did, you gotta admit. Plus it’s not like she knew you’d keep a little black book of all the people you’ve arrested. What is it with that, anyway? That seems kind of counterproductive.” 

“It isn’t a crime to keep tabs on the criminals you put in prison.” 

“No,” Shawn allows, just as the menu loads on TV. Saxophones blare through his stereo system, with good ol Johnny and Baby. He smiles. “But, in a little black book? Dude. C’mon.” 

Lassie rolls his eyes. “Instead of berating me you can go get me another beer for putting up with this dancing garbage.” 

Shawn gasps, more than a little offended. “You can get your own beer for being  _ blessed _ with my presence. You’d be hacking into a raw potato if it weren’t for me, admit it.” 

Instead of admitting it, Lassiter gets off the couch and heads into the kitchen. He can hear the other man poking around in his fridge, which has most definitely seen better days. “You need to clean your fridge. There’s no excuse,” he tells Shawn, but passes him another beer anyway. 

“Thanks,” Shawn breathes, and isn’t cool enough to bash it on the end of his table like Lassiter without losing an eye, so he twists it in his shirt as usual. The detective has no such qualms, and he finds out just how sexy the move is a second time. 

"Don't mention it," the other man breathes. " _ Dirty Dancing. _ You're serious?"

Shawn smirks. 

"Don't play so hard to get, Lassie! I know you have a thing for Swayze and his sweet indulgent moves on the dancefloor."

Much to Shawn's puzzlement and absolute delight, Lassiter seems to actually  _ blush _ a little bit. Well. That's an interesting thought he's most definitely going to file away for later. 

"Trust me, Spencer. He's hardly my type." 

Shawn doubts that, sincerely. "Hm. Too much muscle?" He tries, and is met with nothing but silence. He raises an eyebrow. "Oh,  _ oh.  _ Not enough muscle. I get it." 

"Spencer." 

Shawn laughs. "Okay, man. I hear you. I'm being inappropriate again," he says, just a touch cheekily, and promptly hits play on the remote without further adieu. 

Lassiter turns towards the TV with an undignified (especially for the detective) noise and takes a pull from his beer bottle. “I’m starting to get the idea that you’re the one with a thing for Swayze in this movie and you’re projecting.” 

“Sure, dude. I’d climb him like a spider monkey. So know that I can tell when I’m seeing it,” Shawn says, winking at the other man when he turns to meet his eyes again indignantly. 

“What?” Lassie asks. 

Shawn raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s hardly the first time I’ve ever made a comment like that about a dude.” 

“You’re usually more subtle than that.” 

Shawn shrugs. “I don’t see much point now. We’re bonded over dirty dancing and takeout food, Lassie. That’s practically sanitized.” 

Lassie chokes, opening and closing his mouth a few times in quick succession. “I think you mean sanctified.” 

“I’ve heard it both ways.” 

It’s silent for a few moments once the movie’s opening uncomfortable dance close-ups started up in earnest. Shawn hasn’t seen it in a while, Gus refuses to watch it more than a handful of times a year with him and they’re already at Gus’ self-enforced limit. This always was one of those movies that was best watched with someone else. 

“Mm. Have you ever even seen this movie?” 

Lassiter  _ definitely _ blushes now, Shawn can see the way it gathers on the tops of his cheekbones. It’s a nice look, only accentuated by the glow of the TV, and it’s not like this is hardly the first time he’s noticed how attractive the detective was, but it is the first time he’s allowing himself to  _ really _ look at him without making a huge scene about it. 

Maybe he should have existential crises more often. Putting on a show all the time really is as exhausting as people say it is.

Though he would really prefer for it to come without danger to Gus next time. Shawn’s not sure how many more times he’ll be able to handle that. 

“Once,” the man finally admits. 

Shawn grins. “Well, buddy. You’ve never had the Shawn Spencer Movie Experience, so strap in and prepare yourself for my  _ glorious _ commentary.” 

Lassiter groans. “I’d rather lie about you actually being a psychic than to submit to that brand of torture.” 

“Aw, buddy! I knew you believed in me,” Shawn coos. He holds his finger to his lips and gestures towards the TV. “Now, now. Time for banter in a few minutes, let's bask in the sexiness of this scene in the meantime.”

  
  
  
  


&~&~&~&

  
  
  
  


The thing is, it’s  _ nice _ .

Hanging out with Lassie like this, watching movies over a couple beers and Chinese food, is the most relaxed he’s been in a long while. Sure, hanging with Gus is relaxing, but not in the same way. He never would have guessed he could be like this with the hardass detective, never thought Lassie would allow himself this. But, as Shawn has gathered over the last few years, the old(er) rascal has no problem dishing out a few surprises of his own. 

They’re about halfway through the movie by now and Shawn finds himself watching Lassie more than the actual movie, which would be a tragedy in and of itself if he really cared all that much. Watching Lassie is one of his favorite past times, and for some reason the detective hasn’t noticed Shawn’s gaze on him despite how obvious it is, or he’s for once, deciding to be polite enough not to say anything about it. 

So far, at least. Shawn is far from being subtle about this. 

He’s kept up a steady stream of (hilarious and enriching, if you ask him) commentary, that Lassie’s only growled at a few times. It’s almost… companionable, if he had to put a label on it. It makes Shawn wonder how long it would have taken them to reach this if today hadn’t happened, if Shawn hadn’t momentarily lost his cool with Lassiter and practically yelled --  _ begged _ \-- him to help him help his best friend. To know the detective actually went against protocol to try and ensure Gus didn’t die, whether it was for Shawn, or his police-ridden duties, or whatever excuse Lassie uses to keep himself from examining it too closely, Shawn is absurdly grateful. 

“All these sexy moves make me wanna go dancing,” Shawn comments. 

Lassiter, who has heard him make a comment like this at least five times by now, rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Then go dancing, Spencer. I don’t care as long as you stop blabbing.” 

Shawn grins. “Mm, am I distracting you from your big sexy crush, Mr. Lassiter?”

“I believe you’re projecting again,” Lassiter says, but the blush kissing (ha) his cheeks is hard to write off as simple projection. 

Shawn feels… like he can push his luck a little bit. Each time he gets this reaction out of Lassiter, the base desire of poking at him, testing his buttons returns like a landslide. To know that he gets a reaction out of the man at all that isn’t rooted in annoyance or anger is a special kind of thrill he’s only really felt when on his bike. 

“Hm. The spirits tell me you’re full of shit.” 

“The fake spirits told you that, did they?” 

Shawn grins. “Yep. Signed, sealed, delivered.” 

Lassiter gets a determined look in his eye, and for the first time that night, turns towards Shawn, the movie momentarily forgotten. 

“How do you really do it?” 

Shawn sighs. This again? He has to admire the man’s dedication to Finding Out The Truth, but personally, Shawn finds it more than a little problematic. It’s almost endearing, how Lassie’s been the only one since the beginning who ever doubted that Shawn’s actually psychic. At first it was insulting, but now… it’s a little refreshing, actually. Shawn’s not quite sure how he’s managed to keep up the ruse for so long, but he’s absolutely terrified of finding out what would happen if the truth were to suddenly come to light. 

“I told you, Lassie. A psychic never reveals his secrets.”

"Infuriating and as unhelpful as always, Spencer. Thank you." 

"It's a gift. Much like being a psychic." 

Lassiter tilts his head back on the couch, letting out a sigh that almost sounds  _ years _ in the making. It's impressive, really. And very sexy. Though, Shawn pretty much finds everything the man does sexy. 

"You know," Lassiter begins. "I'm sure the truth is much more impressive than you being a lousy psychic."

Shawn grins, undeterred. "Dude. There's nothing lame about being a psychic, take it from me. I'm an expert."

This is part of what makes his relationship with Lassiter so fun. The most potent game of cat and mouse, even though Shawn's not sure they ever really fit into those roles entirely. He's not sure about many things when it comes to Lassiter, but he is, at the very least, 72% positive the man is far beyond the point of turning him in. 

They've been through far too much for that now. 

"You're never going to admit it, are you?"

Shawn glances at the TV once again, and he realizes it's been several minutes since either of them have paid attention to it, despite how seductive Swayze's dancing has to be. He lets his eyes travel back to Lassiter, who is openly staring at him now. 

The barest hint of his sternum bush is poking out above the collar of his button down. As much as he jokes about it, there is something undeniably attractive about it. The sternum bush, like all of Lassie's quirks and little dashes of  _ Carlton _ simply make the detective more himself. The fact that Shawn wants to pet it, if nothing else just to see if it's as soft as it looks, is simply not important right now. Or ever. Since he's pretty sure Lassiter would rather cuddle a scorpion than subject himself to his touch again. 

"Who says I already haven't and you just haven't been listening?" 

Lassie hums; tries to take another sip of beer, and finds it empty. Shawn knows the man use already had two, and offering another one is just too good to pass up. Shawn is feeling loose, and relaxed from the hit of weed and the couple beers he's had himself, and he finds a single thought at the forefront of his mind:

He doesn't want Lassiter to leave. Never wants him to leave, actually, but especially not now. 

“Want another?” Shawn asks. 

Lassiter licks his lips, considers it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, eventually. His words are halting, like he doesn’t want to say them any more than Shawn wants to hear them. Shawn wonders if he wants to stay for the beer, or the movie, or the company. Maybe all three, if he’s lucky. 

“Why not? I happen to be an expert on bad ideas and I can tell you with confidence this doesn’t even scratch the surface of a  _ truly _ bad idea.”

Lassiter laughs, again. Shawn feels a little dizzy, light-headed and equally as light on his feet. Lassiter’s laughs are hard to come by, even harder to cherish, and all the more coveted by him. Shawn thinks maybe the plateau they’ve reached would be of more use than he originally thought. 

“Yeah, now that you mention it, you get up to your fair share of idiocy with Guster, don’t you?” 

He wonders how fucked up it is that the mere fact that Lassie is able to use the present tense (because Gus is still here, and he isn’t lying dead, dead, dead in some bank) fills him with enough glee he’s practically  _ giddy _ with it for a few moments. 

“I’ll have you know, man, that we take our job  _ very _ seriously, Lassie-Sass. It’s not our fault you don’t recognize the importance and quality of our work.” 

Lassiter shakes his head. He gets up from the couch in his next movement, and for a few moments Shawn almost fears he’s finally pushed the other man away tonight, that his (admittedly less than usual) amount of sassing him and poking him about his crush on sweaty men has driven him away at long last. Though it is everything he wanted when Lassiter first showed up, he finds the last thing he wants to be right now is alone. 

Instead, however, he hears the call of the detective’s expensive shoes hit the imitation tile on his way to Shawn’s fridge. The beer bottles he grabs clink against each other loudly as he walks back into the living room, dropping one of the bottles in Shawn’s lap as he settles back on the couch. 

“Thanks,” Shawn says. He bites his lip, handing the beer bottle back to Lassiter after a moment of silence. “Would you mind?” he asks, mainly to see if Lassie will actually do anything. 

Lassiter raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question him. He snaps the bottle-cap clean off on the edge of the table, handing it back to Shawn easily. 

“Thanks,” says Shawn, again. 

Lassiter shrugs him off, mindlessly reaching out to do the move all over again with his own bottle. 

Shawn glances at the other man once again, unable to keep his eyes off him for more than a handful of moments. Truthfully, Shawn’s always been attracted to the older man. Behind all of the anger and growling macho-masculine bullshit Lassiter hid behind, generally was more anger and growling macho-masculine bullshit. The man was terribly predictable, most of the time, but it was the moments in which he revealed his softer side that Shawn  _ really _ liked. 

Like seeing just how much he cared for Juliet, his childhood love of figure-skating, how seriously he took his duty. All the little things most people discredited or simply didn’t know about Lassie, all because they let his blunt attitude scare them away. 

Shawn knew better, though. 

Lassie wasn’t nearly as mean as he pretended to be, though he had a feeling deflection and Carlton Lassiter went as hand-in-hand as deflection and Shawn Spencer did. He simply wore it differently. 

“Stop staring at me, Spencer,” Lassiter grumbles, though there’s none of his usual heat hiding behind the words. “We are, as you remember, watching a movie.”

Shawn smirks. “I doubt you’re paying it much more attention than I am,” he points out, tone challenging. He takes a long pull from his beer, eyes dancing between the TV and the man next to him. 

Much to Shawn’s ever-growing delight, Lassie almost seems a little  _ sheepish _ . 

“Well -- you’re distracting me.” 

Shawn’s mouth slides into a grin. “I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary, Lassie.” 

_ Though I can, if you’d like,  _ Shawn adds on, silently. 

Normally, he’d have already made the first move by now. Shawn is  _ anything _ but shy; especially now, but he knows Lassiter. Lassiter is by the rules, never straying far from the idealism he pretends he doesn’t cling to. He needs to handle this delicately. Lassie is too important to handle this with his usual flippancy. 

He deserves better.

Shawn knows that for sure. 

In the next moment, he makes a decision. A  _ Decision _ decision. A decision that will rank up there in his Top-Five-Most-Important-Decisions that he’ll probably  _ ever _ make. For the next few years, at least. Life was unpredictable, you see. Despite his claims to the contrary, there wasn’t much about life that didn’t surprise him. 

He learned not to doubt the world’s sense of humor around the ripe age of eighteen, which was also around the time his father had him arrested for auto theft.

Lassie’s lips are moving, no doubt being as blunt and oddly endearing as always, but hell if Shawn can hear him. He can’t hear a damn word he says, really, because Shawn’s too busy pushing forward, right into Lassiter’s personal space, to crash their lips together. It is, as far as first kisses go, definitely Not Perfect, but perfect anyways. 

The taller man’s beer bottle sloshes between them, Shawn reaching out with trembling fingers to steady it. He grabs it from Lassiter’s slack grip to place it back on the coffee table, and for the first time, allows himself to feel nervous by the way Lassiter’s still frozen beneath him.

Shawn has never been so fucking scared at the outcome of kissing someone before. At least, not like this. 

Begrudgingly, Shawn pulls away after Lassiter doesn’t surge to life underneath him like Those-Who-Are-Kissed always do in the fanfiction Shawn can’t help but read over Gus’ shoulder. 

“Well,” Shawn begins, over-enunciating to hell and not having a clue on how to stop it. “That was a thing, wasn’t it, Lassie? If we could just, you know, super forget I ever did that, that would be great. Do you mind doing me that solid?” 

Shawn flops back to his side of the couch, peering apprehensively at the man sitting beside him. Lassiter is the embodiment of a broken record, which would be hilarious under any other circumstances, probably. Instead, it just adds to the sting of rejection he can’t quite shake. Not this time. 

“Spencer,” Lassiter says, just as the silence was beginning to become too much. Shawn is, tempted, once again, to invite Lassiter to leave, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t, but the words just won’t come. And he finds that most parts of himself really don’t want to. 

Shawn shakes his head. “Lassie, no! I said not to talk about this. Come on, do me a solid dude. I deserve a solid.” 

Lassie’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Spencer.” He tries again. “ _ Shawn _ .” 

Shawn sighs, breathing quickly in-and-out through his nose, and finally raises his gaze to meet Lassiter’s. The detective is watching him with an expression which, infuriatingly enough, Shawn has no idea  _ how _ to even begin to decipher. It’s one he’s never seen dance across his handsome features, and it stokes the seeds of anxiety in his stomach that are already sprouting. 

He can’t tell if it’s a good expression or a bad one. 

At all. 

“You kissed me,” Lassie says, words heavy in his mouth. 

“Hey! That doesn’t sound like ignoring it to me, man,” Shawn says, pointing a finger at him accusingly. 

“Shawn. Just… answer the question.” 

“You didn’t ask a question, but sure, Lassie,” he starts. “I did. Kiss you, that is.” 

“Why?” asks Lassie, generously not mentioning the fact that he very much  _ did _ ask a question. 

“I would think that’s like, obvious, man. Why else would I kiss you?” 

“There are plenty of reasons someone would kiss another, and not all of them end in romance, Spencer.”

Shawn rolls his eyes. “You’re so cynical. We’re not all monsters, you know.” 

Lassiter sighs. “You’re inebriated. Twice over.” 

He can’t hold back his laugh at that. “Really, dude? Do I sound  _ inebriated  _ to you?” 

Shawn is  _ so far _ from anything approaching intoxicated he’s a little surprised the other man can’t see that. Then again, the only time he’s seen Lassie drunk himself was back in the beginning, when he admitted all those nice things about Shawn that still leave his stomach feeling feeling not unlike the way he felt the first time he saw Val Kilmer’s face on the big screen. 

“I could easily drive my motorcycle right now, dude. I’m fine. I know what I’m doing and am in control of all my faculties,” Shawn says, once Lassie still hasn’t said anything. Shawn licks his lips, leaning forward on his knees into the other man’s space again. “Wait. Is  _ that  _ why you didn’t kiss me back?” he asks, voice coming out smaller than he means it to. 

Lassiter sputters, looking at Shawn with slightly widened eyes. He hasn’t really moved since Shawn invaded his space; he can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s more of a positive sign than he initially thought. The pliant way he held himself underneath Shawn may have had more to do with control than being uncomfortable with his advances. 

To test this, Shawn pushes forward once again, meeting Lassiter’s eyes with a small smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “Hm. What would you do if I were to lean over and kiss you again?”

Lassiter swallows loudly, licks his lips. “Lean over here and found out,” he challenges. 

Shawn doesn’t wait a single second. 

It’s everything he’s been waiting to hear; it’s with that thought he catches Lassiter’s lips in another kiss. This time it is so, so much better, as it turns out, kissing him is a lot more enjoyable when he actually  _ responds _ to it. The taller man comes alive when their lips touch, one of his hands settling warm and sure on Shawn’s knee, the other resting at the cut of his hip. 

Shawn can’t quite help the noise he makes into Lassie’s mouth -- it is absurd, and embarrassing, and a million other adjectives he can’t possibly grasp at right now, as Lassiter turns out to be  _ extremely _ talented. Their tongues haven’t even tangoed and Shawn finds himself grasping pitifully at his self-control. 

He can hear Johnny talking in the background, though it might as well be white noise as far as he’s concerned. This definitely isn’t the way he pictured kissing Lassie for the first time, but it is infinitely better than anything he could’ve come up with on his own. Lassiter is much more alive than he previously had given him credit for, muscles animated with tension when Shawn’s hand slides up to grip helplessly at the older man’s forearm. It’s organic, and messy, and absolutely  _ everything _ . 

Kisses have never made him poetic before. He wonders what it says about him that they’re only starting to  _ now _ . 

“Fuck,” Shawn breathes, once Lassiter pulls away. The line of spit that keeps their mouths connected as they separate should be disgusting, but he really can’t find it in himself to care. “Who knew you could kiss like that, Lassie?” 

Lassiter blinks, those startlingly blue irises swallowed up almost entirely by the depth of his pupils. His smile grows slow, like the first tease of dew in the spring, like the roots Shawn’s slowly started to nurture back here;  _ home _ . For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, he is grasping at actual permanency. 

“Shawn,” Lassie begins, with a look on his face that seems  _ fond _ \-- is fond. 

Shawn grins, and it feels new. As new as Carlton calling him Shawn, maybe. 

“Yes?” asks Shawn, purposefully dragging it out in a hiss, mainly just to see the delightful little crease that forms between Lassie’s eyebrows. 

This time, it’s Lassiter that dives across the space between them to press into Spencer’s space. 

It feels like victory.

It tastes even better. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This was my first time writing them both so I hope I did them a little bit of justice. 
> 
> Comments are ♥.


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